Iâ€™m still mulling over the messages delivered by television advertising during the big game on Super Bowl Sunday. Seems to me television advertising is supposed to encourage us to buy things we donâ€™t need with money we donâ€™t have. I would do it merrily if I could identify which products they were pushing.Â
For me, the Super Bowl stopped being about football a long time ago â€” well, except for that year the Saints finally showed up.Â Itâ€™s become an excuse to consume artery-clogging food, and laugh it up at â€ścleverâ€ť commercials, half of which I didnâ€™t understand.Â
The room got quiet as we watched some guy chasing a cheetah chasing a gazelle.Â At the conclusion, everyone roared gleefully including the woman sitting next to me.
â€śI donâ€™t get it,â€ť I whispered to her.Â We were sitting in the back of the room where we could secretly pick the icing off an entire King Cake.Â Iâ€™ve been on a sugar fast for six weeks and the relapse delivered a buzz equal to a half bottle of Jack Daniels. â€śI didnâ€™t get it either,â€ť she admitted, but she was still chuckling along with everyone else in the roomful of folks who seemed to â€śget it.â€ť But laughter is so much fun, who cares? So I laughed too â€” only a little too loud, and a little too late. Everyone looked at me like I was a dumb blond, a role I have perfected over the years.
Naturally, the most panned commercial was my favorite. It featured a bunch of senior citizens sneaking out of the â€śhomeâ€ť to perform some sophomoric pranks, loiter at a fast food restaurant and party down at a night club. Ah, what memories flooded my mind. I recall climbing out of my dorm room more than four decades ago and having the time of my life.
It was heart warming to know I can have those times again when my children plunk me into the â€śhome.â€ť Â Â
On sleepless nights, Iâ€™ll be the one to grab my Hurrycane, climb out the window and steal an old Plymouth to go joy riding.
Once, long ago, we drove our parents crazy and now its â€śpayback timeâ€ť for our children.Â Thank you Mr. Unknown Advertiser for reminding me that crazy wicked fun isnâ€™t reserved for the young.
Most of the ads left me cold.Â But to tell the truth, I forgot my glasses and could only see a big blur on the screen. Paul Harvey did get my attention when the radio host delivered a poignant ode to the American farmer.Â Iâ€™m not sure what he was advertising, but our farmers got a well earned and overdue plug and I got a lump in my throat.Â Bravo.Â Â
My biggest regret is that I missed Masterpiece Theaterâ€™s â€śDownton Abbyâ€ť which the Super Bowl had the gall to eclipse.Â Â Everyone knows that men rule the remote and an English epic doesnâ€™t stand a chance against a testosterone overload and hot wings.
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Emily Jones is a retired journalist who edits a website for bouncing baby boomers facing retirement.Â She welcomes comments at www.deludeddiva.com.